Of Gray Cigars and Green Pearls
by xbluxmoonx
Summary: Five years ago the Holocaust in West Egg had been the front page of every major newspaper in New York. Five years later, Nick returns to discover the debris they left behind. Including half love and half affairs. It just wouldn't be the same without them.
1. Prologue

**Of Gray Cigars and Green Pearls**

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Prologue

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The house was dark, almost lifeless. Its large windows mirrored nothing but the gray, outside world- as its eyes had nothing left to do but become blind and fade away over time. With wooden plasters that hung limply by nails over the many mouths and noses and eyes of the creature, it seemed much more like an injured animal- too dead to take care of itself. It limped, too, in slow, agonizing pain, with gashes along its sides that showed guts made of crumbling bones made of brick and rotting intestines laced in once fine white, farther inside. Dust became its deteriorating blood that puffed out with every gust or little breeze- its heart beating, gushing, waiting for revival- but at a loss with wounds too deep to be healed.

This had been the house- the one that belonged to the infamous man that was still known as the "man that used to hold the biggest parties in New York". He hadn't ever had to do anything. Order the food, call for the band, pay, pay, pay. What did it matter? His shady dealings would forever remain a mystery. It was an odd thought, playing with your mind like the wind did with the overgrown, yellowing palm trees surrounding the house, their necks winding sideways with every passing year- so much that the tips of the leaves skimmed the broken house's nearly un-shingled roof.

Nature may have taken its course on the once perfectly trimmed green lawn, leaving it overgrown with fleshy weeds and patches of bald spots, but the destruction of the house was half man-made. It was an unfathomable forthcoming- and yet, it was such a probability that maybe I should have realized it sooner.

There was no party to go to anymore on Saturday nights, nowhere to swoon young girls into strong arms, or get unutterably drunk so that the host's many chauffeurs would have to give them rides home- which would probably take a while since the guests were so drunk they wouldn't be able to recall where they lived. No, these past memories and once present thought angered past guests or merely intrigued the younger fans, when they were too naïve too realize that there host wasn't not holding back on them, but the fact that he just wasn't coming back.

But that was what was so great about his parties. Glamour lasted night long, and reality was just a simple, faded memory in the background. What did these guests have anything to worry about? They were being fed and housed for free. That was the innocence of it, the dream-like quality of it all, of the lavender rooms that were bathed in sunlight or crystallized light of the overhanging chandeliers. Jordan's lavender pearls belonged here, Daisy's white dress and golden hair had every reason to reside. And not anywhere else…

My bungalow was to the side, dirty and musty and brown. Weeds were nearly as tall as the roof. My Finn had gone after I had left five years ago, leaving the little shack abandoned as well. But the thing was: my old house looked better than Gatsby's. It had withstood. We had both taken a beating, but I had been the one to leave, to forget. His was dilapidated. His dream hadn't lasted. I wasn't so sure if the lavender rooms were lavender anymore- maybe it had morphed into this dying yellow from the sticking dust and mold and constant, harsh sunlight coming in from the patchy roof and dirty windows.

West Egg hadn't survived as everyone hoped. It had become a nuisance, a place of constant reminders of a past phase of life, gone forever. Large mansions all around were being sold- nearly begging to be taken, and many here favored the city life more. The ashen gray suits and yellow taxi cabs... Reality at its best proximity- hushing everything else to remain in the background. It rose from the pummeling smoke of modern life, becoming a nebulous glaze over the rising, orange sun and bright blue sky…

I tried going into Gatsby's mansion, to get a look inside the great beast, but things above were falling left and right, threatening to hit me over the head with a piece of loose brick or dangling crystal piece of chandelier or splintered plywood. Angry past guests or even the younger crowd( still unbeknownst to them that the host didn't reside there any longer for permanent-like purposes) hadn't taken much of a liking to the place, leaving the furniture in shambles, the walls torn of once graceful wallpaper, mirrors shattered, and finely crafted wooden railings derailed of all purpose.

The breeze poured through the openings -one of which being from where I had entered- rifling for the life lost, for the dried blood spurting methodically like the chime of a grandfather clock striking twelve- until the end of the minute moment dissipated into the next day, and the life disappeared, carrying along on the wind's wings and hoping to someday return.

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AU: After reading the Great Gatsby in -surprise-surprise- English class, I couldn't help but write a continuation to the story. I could never imitate Fitzgerald's incredible writing style or his use of symbolism, but as you can see, I'm doing my best to continue- not only in the continuation of the color symbols he used, but in other types as well. So, for now this is just the prologue. I'll try and get back with the first chapter as soon as I can. Hope y'all liked.


	2. Chapter 1

Of Gray Cigars and Green Pearls

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Chapter 1

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For the first time since I returned I felt this sense of validation, of the confirmation that what had happened five years ago was real. It didn't hit me like a brick wall, or a belt to the face. It was gradual, like a curtain rising. A five year intermission whence I had slept- or sat still, eyes now closed when I thought they had been open, staring at the black curtain in front of me. No movement, a standstill where I waited for the show to begin- for my life to start back up.

Returning to the West was a transition that I had been excited for; the things that were home were so close I could almost hear the children's laughter out in the streets, feel the snow falling on my head. The smell of a home-cooked meal in my mother's kitchen. It felt different, wrong- almost. And it was.

I had taken back so many steps- back to the days when my father disagreed with the bond business and my mother begged me to stay with her turkey dinners. It had been tempting, but I hadn't graduated from New Haven to stay home in the slower pace of things. New York seemed like a dream, a city where I could begin my own life with my own family.

The new life had halted soon after I moved, and the family never existed. Neither did it when I moved back to the West. Too busy, I told my mother over and over again.

"When are you going to find a wife, hmm, Nick?" My mother said, her unique voice- which had a way of sticking inside your head long after she'd spoken- penetrating the once quiet afternoon.

I'd dropped the book I'd been reading to look up at her with a passive gaze. What she had said drew me over the edge, irritated me- almost. Why did she always have to bring it up- every time I did _not_ have to think about her annoyances at the failures of my life?

"Mother," I breathed, "Please, I'm busy."

"I can see that," and she waved her hand at me, telling me to "kindly" place my feet off the sofa so she could sit beside me, "But I want to talk to you."

"Please, mother," I said, again, removing my feet in her haste. But she motioned with her light green eyes to close the book. Again, with a small sigh, I shut the book and placed it on the finely carved coffee table.

"Now," she began, as she patted her brown bob down softly, her last two fingers hovering in the air, "I know you didn't do very well with those last two girls I brought to the house, but there's this lovely other girl that just moved to town…" She stared me down suddenly, after I had raised an eyebrow at her in scrutiny, "She just went through a terrible divorce…"

"Divorce?" I repeated, and then tried to hide my interest, "Really."

"Yes, I know," she said, "And it's just awful that she has to go through it al alone."

"Mo-…"

"Before you say anything else," she said, lifting a dainty, manicured index finger up to my lips, "I want to tell you she is _very _sweet and not only that- but beautiful. And not only _that_, but she plays in…"

"All right- all right," I interrupted, standing up- unable to take her words any longer, "I will be here when she arrives. Will that please you, mother?"

She smiled, eyes alight with the golden afternoon sun, "Yes, yes it will. Now, be a dear and go buy some fresh bread from the bakery in town. Only the freshest, understand?"

And so it was the end of that. I didn't return in time to see the divorced woman and listen to her problems, to give her my shoulder to cry on. When I returned with the warm loaves of bread my mother snatched it from my hands and slapped it on top of my head. Not only wasn't I there as the comforting host, but neither was the bread that she had planned to serve for dinner.

So I sat there until midnight eating the cold, stale bread- _broken_, cold, stale bread, _thinking_ of what I had done wrong that evening- like the little boy I had been years before being punished for not eating my peas. Degrading, yes. Irritating, yes. Worth it, yes. My mother didn't speak to me about if for the next few weeks.

And I didn't have to meet that girl- that woman again for another two years.

It was then that I decided that this life- measured by each step I took, by each second that ticked away at the slowest pace of a day, would not be enough. There was this serene quality that I had vanquished as my own when I'd returned for the first time. It was different, it was peaceful. But it contained the drone of a ticking clock, of the second hand dipping down to six and then back to twelve every comatose second to minute to hour…to day…

I gathered the important necessities, toiletries, a few days' worth of clothing, papers, pens- work I would need to do over the train ride, and then dumped it all into a small, bag of luggage. It took all my strength to step outside of my house again. Like a ship with it's propellers bent, the dark sea stretching on for miles before it without mercy. Stay home, it told the ship, but the ship was not meant to stay harbored forever, in that hazy, gray mist of nothingness. The sea was vast, yes, but it was calling, with its wide, gaping mouth and dark, stormy, blue eyes. With or without a broken and bent propeller, left for the shop to fix but abandoned in the process, I would force myself out into the sea. Willingly or not, delighted or not, I just had to.

In front of me, the train whistled, calling shrilly, drowning out all the voices, all the people on the platform, all my thoughts. The attendant waved, crisp black uniform swallowing all light before him, bits of the gold buttons decorating his shirt front glinting like tiny, blinking eyes. I smiled at him, at the golden eyes, at the darkness ahead. It smiled, and swallowed me whole.

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Thank you to all those who read and reviewed. Hope you enjoyed this super short chapter. I wasn't meaning to update until later, but I just couldn't resist. That's mainly why the chapter is so short. Anyway, hope you r&r and stay posted.

xblux


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